The Fabulous Casimir looked blank. “The He-Man cartoon? Oh, please. Only that Prince Adam was obviously a total closet case in every sense of the word.” He gave a discreet cough. “Not that I’m old enough to remember it, of course.”

I smiled. “No, of course not. Thanks, Cas. If you do hear anything about either, let me know, okay?”

“I’ll ask around.” He shook a finger at me as I left. “No matter how bleak it looks, you stay away from temptation, Daisy Johanssen! I mean it.”

“I will,” I called over my shoulder, bells tinkling as I exited the shop. “I promise.”

Temptation.

What the hell did that mean, exactly? There were always the Seven Deadlies, which I struggled with on a daily basis, always trying to control my temper. But behind them lurked the greater presence of my birthright.

I could invoke my father, Belphegor.

I could claim my birthright.

My tail twitched at the mere thought of it, swishing back and forth beneath my linen pencil skirt. Until this case came along, I’d never really chafed at the lack of material powers that came with my half-breed status. Oh, sure, I’d entertained a few revenge fantasies in my teen years—what adolescent hell-spawn wouldn’t?—but I always knew it would be wrong. And I always had my mom there to guide me. But what if I could claim my demonic birthright and put my powers to work in the service of good?

It was a heady thought, and I was pretty damn sure it was a dangerous one, too. I wished Casimir hadn’t put it in my mind. As much as I loved Pemkowet, it wasn’t worth risking a breach in the Inviolate Wall to save the town’s reputation.

So I pushed the thought aside, got into my car, and drove to Cuypers and Sons to attend Thad Vanderhei’s memorial service.

The funeral home on the southern edge of Appeldoorn was a gracious old family-owned establishment. I’d cut it closer than I intended, and the chapel was already quite full. I recognized the Vanderhei family in the front pew, and Chief Bryant’s bulky, uniformed figure a few rows behind them, as well as a thickset couple who might have been the Huizenga boy’s parents. It was hard to tell from behind. Otherwise, there was no one I recognized, except . . .

I narrowed my eyes at a tall man alone sitting in the rearmost pew. He was good-looking with high, rugged cheekbones, longish black hair caught back in some kind of silver clasp.

He looked familiar, and yet not. He wore an impeccably tailored black suit, a black shirt, and a black satin tie, and, oddly, a pendant on a silver chain over it, some kind of smoky quartz crystal. He was sitting quietly, calm and collected, his eyes half-closed.

And . . . there was a glamour over him.